by Cassie Miles
“Becky bothers me,” she said. “When I interviewed her, I really had the impression that she had broken up with Crowe. I would have sworn that she had another boyfriend.”
“Who?” he repeated. “Couldn’t have been either of our other suspects.”
Her frown deepened. “What if there’s somebody else? Somebody we didn’t suspect at all?”
The idea of throwing out all their deductions and starting over with a clean slate made him shudder. “You can’t disregard the most important piece of evidence. The Judge hates us. You and me. He sees us as his adversaries. He knows us, and we must know him.”
That was the most convincing argument for Eric Crowe being the Judge. Flynn concluded, “Crowe despises us. He blames us for destroying his business in San Francisco. He’s fixated on us.”
“You’re right.” She raised the beer to her lips and drained the bottle. “It’s got to be him. But I’ll feel a lot better after Becky Delaney is found and fills in the details.”
The telephone in the hallway rang, and Flynn went to answer it. It was Mackenzie, calling from the hospital in Cortez.
“What is it?” Flynn asked.
“Eric Crowe is dead. I thought you and Marisa would want to know.”
“I thought he was improving.”
“He had a massive stroke. It came out of nowhere. The docs were surprised.”
They’d never have a full confession. But Flynn couldn’t honestly say that he was sorry. They’d be spared the uncertainty of a trial. The Judge was dead.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, Marisa stretched and yawned in Flynn’s bed. His sheets snuggled around her, warm and cosy. His pillow supported her head. She opened her eyelids.
The man himself was nowhere in sight.
Her thoughts immediately slid to the negative. He’d left her. Last night didn’t really happen; she’d been so desperate to restart their relationship that she’d made it up.
But the evidence was to the contrary. Not even in her wildest fantasies could she have imagined the intensity of their lovemaking. Her entire body felt swollen and satisfied. How many times? Good grief, she’d lost track.
She pulled the sheet over her breasts and relaxed. Everything was fine. Better than fine. Flynn was coming back to San Francisco, where they’d be together. Though she had doubts about whether or not she would continue her own career, she’d received high praise for her work here. And Eric Crowe was dead.
His death disturbed her. She’d never killed a man before, even indirectly, and it felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
In her memory, she replayed those moments. He had been coming at her with a gun. She’d acted in self-defense. Hadn’t had a choice.
Now, he wouldn’t be able to confess or deny. She would never know for certain that he was the Judge.
The aroma of fresh coffee preceded Flynn into the room. Fully dressed in jeans, shirt and boots, he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He placed the mug on the bedside table, leaned down and gently kissed her forehead. “Good morning, sleepy girl.”
She stoked his freshly shaved cheek. “They’ll be sure to do an autopsy on Eric Crowe, won’t they?”
His eyes narrowed in a squint. “You’re supposed to say, Good morning, lover.”
“He wasn’t supposed to die. All the doctors said he’d recover.”
“They made a mistake.” His voice was gentle. “But you didn’t. Eric Crowe was the Judge and you did the world a favor. He won’t kill anyone else. It’s over.”
“Until the next body turns up.” She didn’t want to be talking about this, but she couldn’t help herself. “In San Francisco, you insisted that the Judge was still alive and you were right. Other victims died because nobody would listen to you.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to make the same mistake again.”
He grasped her hand, held it to his lips and kissed the palm. “Do whatever you need to do. I’ll back you up.”
She sat up on the bed, arranging the sheet across her naked breasts. “Even if you think I’m wrong?”
“I’ll go with your gut instincts.”
A warmth spread through her. His support meant the world to her. “You are the most perfect man.”
“And I brought coffee.”
He held the mug toward her, and she accepted it without reminding him that she was trying to cut down on her caffeine. “We don’t have much more time left at the safe house.”
“There’s a guy coming after lunch to pick up the horses. This morning, I need to pack up or destroy the contents of several file cabinets we left in the bunkhouse.”
“Top secret stuff?”
“If it was, I couldn’t tell you.”
He gave her an easy grin. A reassurance that everything between them was okay, even if she was acting like a nutcase.
She tasted her coffee, enjoying the flavor and imagining the caffeine going straight to her brain, waking her up and sharpening her focus. “Do you need my help in the bunkhouse?”
“Not really. You stay here and investigate whatever you need to.”
She set down her mug and pulled him close. The buttons on his shirt pressed against her swollen breasts. Cradled in his arms was the best place in the world. With him, she was complete and safe.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, Marisa paced in the front study, sorting through her doubts and trying to make sense of her gut feeling that Eric Crowe wasn’t the Judge.
On her cell phone, she placed a call to Mackenzie, asking if they could do a quick tox screen at the Cortez hospital.
“Negative,” he said. “Crowe’s body will be shipped to facilities in Denver for complete autopsy. Why are you concerned?”
“His death was unexpected.”
“I had a man watching his room last night. Nobody but doctors and nurses came in or out.”
She didn’t want to cast aspersions on the agent who had been standing guard, but she knew how these things worked. Surveillance on a man in a coma would be fairly casual. He wasn’t going anywhere.
The guard might have fallen asleep. Or someone might have slipped into a pair of scrubs and entered Crowe’s room. But she couldn’t make that inference without explaining all her other doubts. She’d have to wait for the regular autopsy. “Thank you, sir. I’ve enjoyed working with you.”
“Marisa, I know what you’re going through,” Mackenzie said. “You’re blaming yourself for this man’s death.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You did what you had to do.” She could almost hear him shuffling papers and suggesting a psych evaluation on her. “Take care. I hope to work with you again.”
She disconnected the call. She wasn’t crazy. Her doubts were reasonable, and she didn’t need to talk to the FBI psychologists. Or maybe she did.
She punched in the number for Jonas Treadwell’s cell phone. If he was still in the area, he might be able to put her mind at rest.
When he answered, she heard noise in the background as if he was in his car. She summed up the situation in a few words. “We apprehended the man presumed to be the Judge. There was a struggle and I stabbed him. Last night, he died in the hospital.”
“As a result of his wounds?” Treadwell asked.
Not necessarily. Someone might have entered his room in the guise of a doctor and poisoned him. Or fiddled with the equipment and sent a blood clot through his system. “It was a massive stroke.”
“I see.”
“Shouldn’t I be feeling closure?” she asked. “I’ve been after this guy for years. It seems as though I ought to be relieved that he’s dead.”
“Tell me about your feelings.”
“Frustrated. I wish he had confessed.”
“Why?”
“This seems incomplete. I want to make sure all the loose ends are tied up.”
She recalled one of those loose ends. William Graff claimed that his son had seen dozens of psychology professionals. “Is there
any way to get a list of therapists who saw Russell Graff?”
“The parents won’t tell you?”
She thought of William Graff’s hostility. “That’s a definite no.”
“Difficult question,” Treadwell said. “There are confidentiality issues. What are you looking for?”
“Russell Graff might have mentioned a name. His mentor. The Judge.”
In spite of the background noise, she heard Treadwell sigh. “Your feelings are valid, Marisa. You’ve been under intense pressure and you can’t believe this very difficult case is finally over.”
“What if it isn’t? What if the Judge is still out there?”
“It’s time to let go,” he said. “You’ve been thinking about quitting the FBI, and I suggest you do it. Move on with your life.”
How did he know? She hadn’t discussed her career plans with anyone but Flynn. And she was positively certain that she hadn’t talked about quitting with Treadwell—someone who consulted with the other FBI shrinks. “How did you know I was thinking about leaving the FBI?”
“I’m sure you mentioned it.”
“No.”
“Perhaps I overheard a conversation with Flynn.”
A chill went through her. Had Treadwell been listening and watching on a mini-camera as she and Flynn searched the ghost town saloon, or the cave at Hovenweep?
“Marisa? Are you still there?”
“Thanks for your opinion, Doctor.”
She disconnected the call. Was Jonas Treadwell the Judge?
In the kitchen, she got herself another cup of coffee—her third. Then she returned to the den, where she sat at the desk and fired up her computer.
She searched through the files on the Judge investigation, looking for a connection to Treadwell, checking the timing of his reports.
The logistics were possible. Though he lived in L.A., he visited San Francisco when consulting. And he came to the Mesa Verde region for his so-called fishing vacations.
She turned her computer search toward the man himself. After digging through his accolades and his published works, she found a reference that rang a bell. A mention of his mother’s suicide.
He’d told them this story. He’d said he’d had a client whose behavior had changed in a spectacular way after his mother killed herself. Spectacular. That was the word he had used. And he’d been talking about himself.
She read in newspaper archives about Emily Treadwell, who had also been a research psychiatrist. She’d lost her career three years ago when she’d been caught using faked results. Devastated and shamed, she had slashed her wrists and bled to death.
A photograph of Emily Treadwell showed her to be attractive. She was shorter than the other person in the picture. And she had long black hair. Like the Judge’s victims.
Marisa’s fingers jumped off the computer keys. She sat back in the desk chair and stared. “It can’t be,” she murmured.
But if Treadwell was the Judge, it would go a long way toward explaining how he’d got into the FBI databases and communications. He had the initial access. So easily, he could have obtained personal information on her and Flynn.
What if he’d been one of the psychiatrists treating Russell Graff? Treadwell could easily have played mind games, encouraging that young man to murder.
She read the obituary, scanned another article about Emily Treadwell and her legacy. Her maiden name was Day. And her nickname was “Daisy.” Like the plastic flower that they’d found at Hovenweep. The final clue.
Treadwell’s mother was Daisy.
Marisa shoved away from the desk. She needed to talk to Flynn about her suspicions.
In the kitchen, Treadwell stood waiting for her. His sun-bleached hair was artistically tousled. His complexion was pale in spite of his healthy southern California tan. He held a gun in his right hand.
In a familiar whispery voice, he said, “Sit down at the table, Marisa.”
She glanced through the kitchen window and saw flames. The bunkhouse was on fire.
FLYNN BACKED AWAY from the wall separating the office section of the bunkhouse from the sleeping quarters. Smoke crept under the door. He was trapped in this windowless room, surrounded by bags of shredded documents. Great fuel for a fire. This entire structure was nothing more than wood and insulation. It would go up like a torch.
This wasn’t an accident.
He had to get out. Get to Marisa. She had to be in as much danger as he was.
The only way out of here was through the ceiling or the floor. Smoke rises. He’d try the floorboards. He tore up the carpeting. Part of the plain wood floor underneath had been removed when they’d installed the electronics systems for the computer and surveillance equipment. If he could find that spot, he’d get into the crawl space.
The smoke around him thickened. He had to get out of here, had to make it to her.
Her gut instinct had been right. The Judge wasn’t dead and wasn’t playing games anymore. He was trying to kill them.
MARISA FOUGHT THE PANIC that crashed through her. Flynn was in that bunkhouse. He’d be burned alive.
She stared into Treadwell’s cold, blue eyes. “Let us go. We won’t tell anyone. We’ll let you get away.”
“I don’t believe that. I’ve never seen anyone more determined than you and Flynn.” He raised his gun, preparing to shoot.
“Wait!” The longer she survived, the more likely it was that she could help Flynn. “You have to tell me. How did you manipulate Russell Graff?”
He hesitated for a moment, then he gave her a disgustingly flirtatious smile. “This won’t be a long conversation, Marisa.”
But he couldn’t resist bragging about how clever he’d been. His ego was his weakness, and she played to it. “Please tell me.”
“I was called in as a consultant by a psychiatrist who was treating Graff. I quickly discovered his fascination with the Judge—with me—and exploited it.”
“I would have found the paper trail.”
“Which is why I need to eliminate you and your lover. You should have quit, should have been satisfied with the death of Eric Crowe.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Child’s play,” he said. “I impersonated a doctor, entered his room and administered an injection. There are no surveillance cameras in the Cortez hospital. No one could identify me.”
He leveled the gun again. She had to talk fast. To come up with something. “What about Becky Delaney? How did you hook up with her?”
“I knew Crowe was a suspect and thought he might be useful to me. When I visited his shop, I met dear little Becky.”
“You were her new boyfriend,” Marisa said.
“She was my lover,” he said. “An adopted girl with a father fixation. She likes older men and was ready to leave Eric Crowe. I played on her disrespect for au thority. For quite a while, she enjoyed our games of taunting the FBI.”
Marisa sensed disappointment in his tone. “Did she change her mind?”
“Becky’s morality kicked in. She felt sorry for Grace Lennox. And she liked you, wanted no part of your kidnapping.” He lifted his chin. “Becky and Eric Crowe were actually on their way to rescue you.”
Marisa’s heart sank. “And I stabbed him.”
“As I knew you would.”
He’d left the switchblade in her jacket on purpose. He’d set her up to attack the first person who walked through the door into the room where she was being held. “You wanted to turn me into a murderer.”
“Yes.” He showed his perfect white teeth in a cold smile. “That should have been enough trauma to turn you off the Judge investigation forever.”
“But I didn’t kill him. You did.”
“A technicality.” He shrugged. “Crowe wouldn’t have been vulnerable if you hadn’t attacked him.”
He had done everything in his power to destroy her and Flynn, but it didn’t work. They’d survived and come out stronger. “Why did you leave the daisy? Why the reference to your mother
’s nickname?”
“I never thought you’d figure it out.”
“You underestimated me.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “You and Flynn were worthy adversaries. I would have allowed you to live. But now you’ve been caught by your own cleverness. And so, must die.”
Why hadn’t she backed off? Her gut instinct, her pressure to continue the investigation, would be the death of them.
LYING ON HIS BACK in the crawl space under the bunk house, Flynn positioned himself carefully to avoid touching the wires and conduits, then aimed a hard kick at a portion of the wall.
His eyes burned. His throat seared. Worse, he felt light-headed. He was losing consciousness.
He kicked again. The boards gave way.
All he had to do was turn around, crawl forward. He could make it. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled. Every breath was agony.
He clawed his way toward the light. So close.
His arm stretched out. He was blanking out.
Hands closed around his wrist. He felt himself being pulled from the crawl space.
MARISA SANK INTO the chair at the kitchen table, unmindful of the gun Treadwell still aimed at her chest. She was a murderer. Her actions had brought the Judge to them. The man she loved with all her heart was burning to death in a fire.
“Giving up?” Treadwell asked. “No more questions?”
“This is all about your mother, isn’t it? When she was caught cheating, she killed herself.”
“She couldn’t stand failure. Not in herself or in others. My dear mother never believed I was quite good enough. After she died, it was my life’s work to prove her wrong, and to judge others.”
Marisa stood. She resolved to make her last words count. “You failed with me. And with Flynn. You sent us on that wild chase all over the country to undermine our will. Instead, we came out stronger. Closer.”
“Such a pity that you won’t live to enjoy that triumph.”
“You failed with Grace Lennox,” she said. “She survived.”
“I let her live. I deemed Judge Lennox to be worthy of continuing her life.”
